


Day 42

by Wooingsan



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Bus Driver!San, Compulsive!Wooyoung, Compulsory Behaviors, Dirty Talk, Domestic Woosan, Fluff, Frottage, I want "nip-ulation" to be a tag, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Licking, Routine, Smoking, Swearing, a hint of sweet and spicy body worship, lap-sitting because it's a personal kink, the Halloween influence makes sense later on, wholesome ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wooingsan/pseuds/Wooingsan
Summary: Wooyoung leans in until his nose grazes the surface and his lips leave warm, cloudy huffs against the barrier. San dumbly remembers it’s the beginning of fall. Wooyoung breathes until it’s opaque, until San can’t see anything but the crown of his head or the place on his chest where the zipper holds his sweatshirt together. Then, Wooyoung starts to draw. He’s quick and San’s brain is feeling slow, watching that fingertip work until he realizes it’s writing. It’s writing numbers.Wooyoung is writing his phone number in the fog on the glass.ORWooyoung's a man of routine. San drives straight into it.
Relationships: Choi Jongho/Kang Yeosang, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 206
Collections: ATEEZ Halloween Week





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> When I first saw mentions of an Ateez Halloween Week, I knew I wanted to submit something. I do not personally celebrate, which became clear in the direction this fic took me. This isn't where I intended to go, but, like Wooyoung, I was along for the ride.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Note: The compulsory behaviors exhibited in Wooyoung's character are typically associated with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. This is not specifically addressed, however.)
> 
> P.S. "Gisa-nim" is a formal way of addressing a driver in Korean.

\-----  
Day 1

“Who the fuck are you?”

It’s San’s first day on his new route. 

He’s been driving public transportation in Seoul for the last two years, usually subbing in for hard-working constituents who call out sick or take a vacation, usually driving a bus. It’s enough to make ends meet and it affords him an intimate knowledge of the city he loves. 

Plus, he enjoys learning more about Seoul’s inhabitants. 

Fingers floating mid-air, San looks through the threshold. There’s a man standing on the curb just outside the open doors, purple hair, oversized clothes, freshfaced and scowling. 

Pretty, San thinks dimly.

“I said, who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the bus driver.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But where’s the real one?”

San frowns. His first stop and he’s already about to be behind schedule. “The usual bus driver had a knee replacement surgery and will be in recovery for a while. I’m filling in.” 

The man’s jaw drops open with a sharp gasp. “What? He didn’t tell me about it. Are you lying?”

“I’m not, but we’re on a schedule, so you can either get on or wait to catch the next bus in six minutes.” San tries to control the pinch in his tone, smoothing it out to professional and curt. 

“Excuse me?” The man scoffs, stepping onto the raised platform. “Clearly no one gave you the low down on this route, _gisa-nim_ ,” he bristles. “You might have the privilege of driving vehicle 2469, but I own this bus.” He steps closer, close enough to feed his T-money pass into the scanner, close enough for San to notice smudges of brown eyeliner, dangling hoop earrings. “My name is Jung Wooyoung, and from now on you will answer to me.”

His card pops back out of the machine, the digital counter granting access. The man snatches it between two fingers, presses it to his lips, then uses it to blow San a kiss as he angles away. 

San’s stuck gazing through the open door, the few people gathering under the roof of the small stop waiting for other routes, drinking coffees, reading papers. He’s frozen, fingers still hovering above the commands. 

“Better keep driving, _gisa-nim_. We’re on a tight schedule.”

Snapping out of it, San finally hits the controls, shifts into drive, and pulls away. 

It’s 7:04 AM. He’s been on the job for 19 minutes. 15 driving the bus from the depot, 4 getting properly introduced to passenger number one. 

It’s just him and Jung Wooyoung while they travel to station number two a few minutes away. He hears a small ‘pop’, more like a click, and glances in his fish eye mirror just to make sense of the noise, just to see where his passenger decided to sit.

But San doesn’t find him.

A click again. San checks the road, checks his mirror. He jumps when movement catches at the corner of his eye. Almost imperceptibly, he turns. There - the first seat, closest to the front, facing the interior of the bus. The best place to keep an eye on the driver. 

“Don’t worry, I’m right here. If you have any questions just ask.”

San huffs internally. This guy.

As they pull up to the next stop San glances at Wooyoung. He’s holding the plastic lid of a take-out coffee in one hand, the other set in a wide grip around a square carton of 2% milk, the kind you buy for a won at 7-11 or get along with your primary school breakfast. The styrofoam cup itself is held precariously between his knees. As they come to a soft halt Wooyoung pours as much of the milk into the container as will fit, folding its spout closed and setting it aside. He grabs the red swizzle stick held between his teeth to give it a stir. 

Two people rise from the metal bench. A line forms at the door. 

“You shouldn’t have open beverages on a moving vehicle.”

“As long as you drive as well as your predecessor we aren’t going to have a problem.”

San opens the door. A young man boards, headphones draped around his neck, followed by an older woman with stockings and loafers and a beaded purse clutched to her chest. They nod at San. San nods back. But it’s cursory, because the moment their cards return out of the machine they turn and nod at Wooyoung, too. 

“Good morning Wooyoung-ssi,” then, “Hello there Wooyoung-ah.”

Wooyoung smiles brilliantly at passenger number two, still swirling his plastic stick into the fawn-brown brew. “Morning Jongho-yah.” He offers passenger three a sweet grin and a nod. “What a lovely dress you have on today, Mrs. Park. Blue is certainly your color.”

Hmm. 

They make it through a few more stops, Wooyoung recapping his coffee, placing the half-empty milk carton next to a backpack on the adjacent seat. San hadn’t noticed Wooyoung wearing a backpack. 

More people board. More acknowledgements of San. 

More formal, informal, reverent, friendly, consistent greetings to the man in the first seat. 

More curbs, more hellos. Wooyoung lights a cigarette.

“You can’t smoke on the bus.”

“Try to stop me.”

San cringes. He had a feeling that trying to correct this apparent local celebrity wasn’t going to go over well. 

Heat catches the end of the cig. A sizzle fraternizes with the hum of oversized automobile.

“It’s against the law, and it’s rude to the other passengers.”

Wooyoung inhales, standing to pop open the thin, horizontal window above his seat. He keeps the smoke between his cheeks until he can exhale into the now-open glass. He sits again, watches San’s gaze flicker between the road and the corner of his eye, expectant. This time Wooyoung juts his lower lip out to send the haze directly up into the air, where it gets caught and cast out by the warm city breeze. 

“Listen. Your respect for the job is cute, but I run this show. I've occupied _this_ seat on _this_ route for the last three years.”

“That doesn’t-”

“Everyone already knows that I keep the peace while you're locked up in that dingy plastic castle with a bucket seat molded into the shape of someone else's ass, eagerly awaiting your too-short lunch break so you can finally unwrap that soggy tuna sandwich smelling up the inside of your hand-me-down lunch pail.” 

San’s shocked. This is the first time someone’s ever treated him quite like this. 

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. San parts his lips to form an argument. Too slow.

“So, no, I will not stop smoking on this bus." 

San shuts his mouth again, unable to control the glare he sends in Wooyoung’s direction. Wooyoung holds eye contact the next time he exhales. 

“Just drive.”

From start to finish, bus route 421 lasts 66 minutes. And for 66 minutes, bus driver Choi San has been convinced that passenger number one has to get off at the next stop. Or the next one. Or the next. Or even the one after that. But he doesn’t. Others come and go, Wooyoung finishes his coffee, drinks the rest of his milk, stubs out his cigarette, but he doesn’t leave. 

As they glide up to the final curb on the route, close to the Han river, Wooyoung’s the only one left. San pulls behind a different 421, turning the vehicle off for his first break of the day. Drivers always have the ability to step out and stretch their legs at the end where the route starts over from back to front, depending on how you look at it. There’s always at least one or two other busses, other drivers, at different stages of relaxing or setting off again. There’s usually a convenience mart or a hotel lobby or a church or something else with a bathroom, and it’s not too bad. Sitting all day isn’t the worst when there are enough opportunities to break it up. 

“This is the last stop.” 

Crossing one leg over the other, Wooyoung nods, leaning back. “Yes it is. Honestly, for your very first drive, I’m impressed you didn’t mess up. Good job.”

San blinks at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks. But that means you have to get off.”

Wooyoung’s slight smile turns into a frown. “No. This isn’t my stop.”

“But this is the end. Then we backtrack -”

“I understand how busses work, _gisa-nim_. In 15 minutes you’ll be starting back up and driving with the traffic on the other side of the road. I’ll be joining you, so there’s no need to exit.”

San unbuckles his seatbelt, then stands. “You have to leave. I need to stretch and stop in that CU over there,” he points, “and that means I have to lock the bus. You can’t stay on without the driver.”

Wooyoung’s frown deepens. His tongue pokes into his cheek. “My seat will get cold.”

Unbelievable.

“Then you should have brought a heating pad, Jung Wooyoung-ssi, because I happen to know the security guard well enough to understand that he isn’t afraid to manhandle someone giving a hard-working civil-servant trouble on their first day.”

It’s a staredown. San standing behind his wall of protective glass, Wooyoung sitting in his chosen place. Finally, Wooyoung snaps his tongue.

“How long do you plan on being our substitute driver?”

“Until your regular driver recovers from surgery.”

“Then what you need to know is that I’m also well acquainted with our apparent mutual friend who hangs out in that booth over there,” Wooyoung gestures with his hands, eyes never leaving San’s, “and that he’s well aware of bus 2469’s amicable Jung Wooyoung and all the services he provides for this city’s transportation system.” He stands, walks up to the glass until his breath turns the pane foggy against the early air of a new September morning. They’re close, a foot away. Maybe more. Feels like less. “Perhaps you should spend some time learning just what kind of route you’re filling in for, _asshole_ , before someone else has to teach you.” He retreats to sling his backpack over his shoulder, the too-big sweatshirt bunching up around the strap. “We will revisit this conversation. Go take a piss or eat an egg or whatever the fuck you need to do. I’ll be right here when you get back.” He slips through the front door, pulling the box of cigarettes from his pocket as he goes.

San watches Wooyoung wave at the security guard as he passes by, lifting the stick to his lips. When the guard actually returns the motion, San can’t help but blanch in surprise. 

And when San exits the CU with a sealed shot of convenience espresso and a mostly-eaten banana, he continues to be surprised. He recognizes his passenger leaning up against that security box, eyes crinkling, peals of throaty laughter echoing as he and the guard giggle at something shared, something that’s theirs. Abruptly, they notice him and glance in his direction. San tosses the peel in the trash and carries the espresso on board, noticing when Wooyoung whispers up at the man and then saunters away, a smirk on his lips, a hand running through his lavender hair.

He really wasn’t bluffing. 

Wooyoung waits patiently to the side as the bus is unlocked, a ghost of a smile playing along his features when San glances his way. He doesn’t need to say anything. That look is enough. He knows San’s impressed.

There’s no one else waiting when they start off again, both back in their respective seats. They ride in silence for a while, and when no one gets on at the second stop, or the third, San decides to speak. 

“Which stop will you be getting off at, then?”

He doesn’t have to check to know that Wooyoung’s looking at him. He can feel his gaze burning through his cheek. He’s felt it this whole time.

“The one where we started.”

“That’s another hour away.”

“Gisa-nim. Haven’t you learned by now? _I know_.”

San pulls up to another curb, waiting a few seconds before deciding no one is boarding, making a motion to close the doors and move on.

“Wait!” Wooyoung shouts, San’s hand pauses in air. “Hongjoong-ah gets on here. You can’t leave yet or he’ll be late to school.”

San glances out his side mirrors, sees no one approaching. “There’s no one coming.”

“Just give him a second, sometimes he gets held up-”

“This isn’t a taxi service and I’m not waiting around-”

“There he is!” Wooyoung’s turned around, leaning over the back of his bench seat and pointing. San can’t see from his angle, the rear of the bus blocking the way. 

“If I can’t see him he’s not close enough, this is just-”

In the distance, a voice cries, “Wooyoung-ah!” 

San tries again. “This is ridiculous, we’re leaving, there’s another bus a few minutes-”

Wooyoung whips around and bites him off. “ _No_. You’ll make up time between stops 34 and 35 - the southbound traffic is good at this hour - and no one gets on between stops 42 and 44 until after 10:00AM, so shut up and hold the door open.”

Speechless, San holds. A moment later a petite man with chunky glasses leaps on board, panting, hands on his knees in front of the card reader. Red faced and huffing he turns to Wooyoung and gifts him the sweetest smile San has ever seen on another human being. 

“Wooyoung-ah! Thank you! Ah-” he exhales, shuddering, pressing a hand to his heaving chest, “You literally always save me.”

“Of course, hyung. That’s what I’m here for,” he beams.

For the first time today, another passenger speaks directly to San. “Hi, new bus driver. Do you know Wooyoung yet?”

“I’m getting to know him.”

“Ah,” the man smiles. “He’s so great. We’re all really lucky he’s here. I don’t know how I’d survive without him, honestly.” Growing tired of Wooyoung’s smug look, San glances down at the ticket in Hongjoong’s hand. “Oh! Sorry,” he says as the payment processes. “My name is Kim Hongjoong, gisa-nim, and I also ride this bus every day. I have to make this time or I’ll be in trouble at work. I’m so glad you waited for me.” He smiles, big, before reclaiming his card and finding a seat in the middle, placing his heavy messenger bag on the open space next to him. As they drive, San notes the pad of paper, the pen, the way Hongjoong places the cap behind his ear and nibbles on the end.

Passengers come and go; they make small talk with Wooyoung, they generally ignore San. Doors open, close. Enter, exit. Sounds of pavement, hinges creaking, leather shifting, pages turning, Wooyoung lighting another cigarette. 

The roads aren’t new to San, especially not the well-travelled streets around busy Seoul Station, through expat-friendly Itaewon, back alongside bougie Gangnam.

Kim Hongjoong gets off at the Sookmyung Women’s University station, calling goodbye to both Wooyoung and San and tittering “Have a good day” at the other passengers. 

And then they’re on the southbound Wooyoung mentioned, and the traffic _is_ good. And if San notices that Wooyoung’s right again when no one boards between 42 and 44, he doesn’t mention it.

They end the route at Wooyoung’s stop, the very first, or last, a full 2 minutes ahead of schedule. 

Wooyoung’s leaning his chin on his palms, elbows resting on his knees. He’s watching him. When San turns in confrontation, Wooyoung smirks. “See? You had nothing to worry about. You did great - we’re even early.”

San stands, getting ready to disembark and stretch again, maybe grab a mid-morning muffin, some tea. He’s usually not afraid to admit defeat, or to praise someone for doing well. He can admit when he’s wrong. But, with this guy, it’s really freaking hard. “Thank you.”

It’s Jung Wooyoung’s attitude. It’s his, 'I own this bus, I know these people,' better-than-you attitude that San’s struggling to handle. Sure, he’s just filling in temporarily. Sure, someone who rides this bus every day is definitely going to know the route better than him. Sure, the original driver and the passengers might have formed good relationships. Sure. That’s all fine. But waving one’s perceived superiority does _not_ jive with San.

“It’s my civic duty,” Wooyoung winks. 

San waits for Wooyoung to leave. 

He doesn’t.

San taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “So-”

“Ah,” Wooyoung stands, “You’re right. 15 minute break. Got it. I’m gonna stop in that cafe - they’ve got good coffee. Want anything?”

San’s jaw drops. He can only ask, voice quiet, “You’re staying on?”

Wooyoung looks mildly exasperated. “ _Yes_ , yes. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Oh.” 

\----

15 minutes later, the whole thing begins again.

\----

They’re somewhere between hours seven and eight, on the final trip south. It’s been a long first day. 

Patience and benign courtesy will get you places in a job like this. Apparently, Wooyoung witnessed that, too.

“I’m afraid we didn’t get off on the right foot this morning, gisa-nim.” San invokes the right to remain silent. “You see, I don’t take kindly to change, so when I saw your face behind the wheel, I didn’t like that. Not because it isn’t attractive or anything - oh no, gisa-nim, that’s not the problem. But, actually, maybe it is a problem, because every time you took a sip of convenience store espresso when we hit a bump in the pavement and those droplets rolled out the corner of your mouth and down your chin and along your neck until you finally had a chance to take your hand off the wheel to catch them, it _was_ a problem. And, since it’s coffee after all, I’m sure your skin was still a little sticky, no?” Wooyoung pulls the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapping the box to get one free. He places it between his teeth and fishes a lighter out of his pants. It’s blue. “I just think it’s a damn shame that you have to wait so long to clean it off in some public bathroom, don’t you?” The lighter clicks a few times, and San knows it’s caught when he hears the sizzle. “So,” Wooyoung takes a drag, “I guess it is a problem.”

Apparently, Wooyoung witnessed more than just San’s benevolence.

He doesn’t realize how hard he’s clutching the steering wheel until his fingers seize up from the strain. It makes turning corners difficult. 

“But the real problem is that I don’t like change, and I don’t like liars either.”

San waits, knowing what Wooyoung wants. They turn a few more corners, then he takes the bait.

“When did I lie, Jung Wooyoung-ssi?”

Wooyoung laughs dryly. “Oh no, not you gisa-nim. I think you’re too righteous for that. Shownu lied.” 

“Shownu?”

“Mm. The real bus driver.” Ah. 

“Because he didn’t tell you he was going to be out for recovery?”

“Because he said, ‘See you tomorrow.’”

Wooyoung lets off a drag as they pull into the last stop where people actually get off. 

He wonders if now that they’re alone Wooyoung will say more.

He doesn’t. When the time comes, he just stands and walks away.

\-----  
Day 2

“Good morning, gisa-nim.”

Wooyoung boards. He’s wearing baggy clothes again. Another pair of pants, different t-shirt, same hoodie. San notices the backpack this time. The card gets swiped through the reader. Wooyoung smiles to himself before flinging his backpack down on the bench of seats. San hopes there isn’t a full coffee in there this time. Automatically upon sitting Wooyoung leans back and crosses an ankle over a knee, his arms spread eagle across the top of the bench like he’s about to put his elbow around someone at the movie theatre. San feels a gaze on his cheek as he quietly closes the doors and pulls away. 

It’s silent until there’s a soft sigh.

He notices a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye, catching the glint of metal in the light when Wooyoung pulls out a thermos, and by the smell when he pops off the lid, it’s coffee again. Looks like it’s already made up, no add-ins waiting on standby this time. He slips in a metal straw, twirls it, then slides it through the lid. Rather sustainable for someone who used styrofoam and plastic sticks the day before.

Wooyoung catches him looking.

“It’s hazelnut today.” He takes a sip, recrosses his legs. 

San doesn’t respond. Maybe if he plays dead, Wooyoung won’t pay him any more attention.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Wooyoung. Actually, after their conversation yesterday afternoon, San feels like he might be catching on. Even so, it’s only his second day and there’s too much to learn to be on edge from the get go.

Fortunately, Wooyoung spends the majority of their round trip talking to passengers, sharing fruit snacks with children and young parents, pretending to mix up Hongjoong’s papers when he sets them out. He talks to them about the weather, about the best baseball players in Korea, about which dog has to go to the vet for a tooth cleaning and why dental care for animals is so damn expensive. It’s mostly them sharing, Wooyoung asking follow-ups to keep the conversation flowing. San finds that surprising. But what he does learn about Jung Wooyoung is that he lives in a one-bedroom apartment, probably alone, with a few plants that he claims reflect his own being: when they’re sick, he’s sick, when he’s sunburned, they’re sunburned. He also gives advice about rotating peaches on the counter so they don’t get bad on one side, about putting salt in coffee grounds to cut the bitter taste, about which store has the best rubber stamps for wedding invitations with customizable font but the place is all the way in Sinchon-dong and to get there you take Line 2, the green train, but get your cardstock somewhere else because it’s overpriced.

San wonders how he knows all this.

When they near the end of day two, back at Wooyoung’s stop, San decides to risk it and ask. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to know he’s interested, but he’s about to get off anyways so if things get weird he won’t have to see him until tomorrow.

“...Jung Wooyoung-ssi?”

Wooyoung’s been laying down across the seat bench, bunched up backpack as his pillow, thermos still lodged in between two yellow bars as a makeshift cup holder. He’s been tapping his foot to a beat. There’s no music.

At San’s call, he stirs. 

“Gisa-nim?” San hears him shift like he’s sitting up, scooting closer. “You called me, gisa-nim?”

“...Isn’t sleeping on the bench uncomfortable?”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I don’t sleep on moving vehicles.” 

“Okay. But didn’t anyone ever tell you bus seats are rife with bacteria and public transportation is a hotbed of viral spread?”

Wooyoung blinks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You should know better than most, gisa-nim, that the Seoul metropolitan system is very diligent about cleaning, and that every night all surfaces within reach are sanitized to an inch of their life. You pick the bus up and drop it off every day - don’t you know this?”

He had, but that wasn’t the point. 

They’re quiet while San tries to figure out where he went wrong.

He glances over, but Wooyoung’s not looking. He’s staring out the window at the slow line of gray buildings, their yellow and red and blue neon signs creeping by. 

“I stay awake so others can sleep.”

San doesn’t know how to respond.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask me, gisa-nim? As much as I appreciate your concern for my health, sweetheart, I don’t think that’s what you really intended to say.”

They make the final turn of the route, back on a main street. The last few stops. There’s no one else onboard. 

The moment feels raw, like tender needlepoint in a busted oak frame. 

It’s raw enough San finds the courage to ask.

“What do you do for a living?”

A flash of teeth. Wooyoung’s smiling. Or smirking. “Aww! Gisa-nim! You like me?”

A little too raw, perhaps.

San blanches. “That’s not what I said, I simply asked- “

“Aaawww, gisa-nim. I called you out and now you’re flustered? So sweet.” 

San sputters for a minute, hands torn between gripping the wheel tighter or flinging through the air to fend off that baseless accusation.

Wooyoung laughs and cuts him short. “Don’t worry gisa-nim, I won’t tell anybody. You do a good job of seeming stoic in front of the other riders, but you can’t hide from me. I know everything about what happens here.” He pauses, looking out the window, but makes no move to collect his belongings. He’s still smiling when he says, “I’d tell you to take me out to dinner first but I like it when things are a little unorthodox. Besides, I know your hours, and brunch would be more appropriate, don’t you think? And,” he adds, “things in the daylight are a little less expectant.” He laughs again, eyeing the curb as they roll up. He stands in a flash, walking to the front door this time. Just when he’s about to descend, just when San thinks he can let out a breath, Wooyoung turns around. He walks up to the glass divider between them. 

San’s caught. He can’t look away. A few strands of Wooyoung’s purple hair catch in the breeze through the open door, whisping around the tops of his studded ears, across the pink of his cheeks. Wooyoung leans in, leans in more, leans in until San’s sure he’s going to kiss the glass and leave imprints of his lips in that off-white, only there in the right light, only there to impress you with their perfect shape and their full texture and that little space in between where if those lips had been on skin they would have sucked a patch into his mouth, to nip.

But they don’t. Instead, Wooyoung leans in until his nose grazes the surface and his lips leave warm, cloudy huffs against the barrier. San dumbly remembers it’s the beginning of fall. Wooyoung breathes until it’s opaque, until San can’t see anything but the crown of his head or the place on his chest where the zipper holds his sweatshirt together. Then, he starts to draw. He’s quick and San’s brain is feeling slow, watching that fingertip work until he realizes it’s writing. It’s writing numbers.

Wooyoung is writing his phone number in the fog on the glass. 

He ducks to meet San’s eyes underneath it. He winks, standing to walk away. “Text if you need anything.”

Then, he disembarks. San sees him look over his shoulder, meet eyes, and wave.

Finally, San exhales.

\----

He didn’t write it down, the number. 

But when he deposited the bus at the depot that evening, he found himself breathing on the glass, too. 

He didn’t write it down, but he remembered it. 

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean the world to me!
> 
> [@Wooingsan](https://twitter.com/wooingsan)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woosan talk snacks. Then, agriculture.

\----  
Day 3

San watches Wooyoung emerge from his alleyway today. It’s the alley between a restaurant that looks like it specializes in hotteok and a coin laundry that boasts guaranteed suds. They both have awnings to protect from the rain. A string of lights runs between them, shared, and San wonders if they’re owned by the same family, or if the neighborhood has some kind of pact where they think string lights are hip and the bars can price their drinks higher.

Wooyoung emerges, then freezes, shocked face looking up at San through the door. 

San’s early. Since it’s the first stop on the route, it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s not blocking anybody else, he can be early.

Wooyoung boards, glancing at San through the sparkly divider cleaned so diligently by the metro staff last night, after being cleaned by the dregs of San’s water bottle and a previously pocketed facial tissue. He notices, but he doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he stops, doesn’t run his pass through the reader, and says, “What’s your name?”

San splutters. “What?”

“I said, what is your name?”

“Gisa-nim is fine.”

Wooyoung tsks. “Sure, it’s fine. It’s fine if that’s what _I_ want to call you, but what if I want to call you by your name, huh? Or what if something goes wrong and I need to testify for a police report? Then what. I’ll call up the dispatcher or I’ll go to the closest security office and I’ll say, ‘excuse me officer but there’s an attractive bus driver who just tackled someone to the ground because they tried to steal Mrs. Park’s favorite purse, no I don’t know his name he won’t tell me, but he’s got pretty dimples and kissable lips, so that’ll help, right?’ No. I’m in charge of this bus, and I need to be ready for anything.” 

He waits, watching the hesitation flicker in San’s eyes.

“If you need my name for emergency preparedness, why did you wait until day three to ask?”

Wooyoung glares at him. “I wasn’t convinced you would stay.”

“This is my job. Where would I be?”

“They could’ve assigned us another substitute. Last time Shownu was on vacation they switched the driver every other day. I think they all bail, but that’s fine. If they don’t like it they can chauffeur the tourists over in Myeongdong all day. Have fun with those language barriers.” Wooyoung shifts, and something crinkles. He shifts again. Crinkles. “Look, I love staring at you, but I could do it sitting down and I’ve got shit in my bag that I’d rather lay flat so just tell me your name and we can get on with our day.” 

Something about Wooyoung makes San’s mind run a little slower, or his blood a little too fast. Either way, it doesn’t help with response time. So he nods, indicates to the T-pass like he needs Wooyoung to complete the boarding ritual before he can form words again. He complies with a huff, throwing himself in his seat.

“It’s San.” Wooyoung pauses partway through unzipping his bag. “My name is Choi San.”

He puts the bus in drive. It’s only 7:02. 

“Thanks, gisa-nim.”

At the next stop, San is startled out of his mute reverie by a knock. A knock? He turns to see Wooyoung’s knuckles on the glass, his face seeking. His eyes rove between San’s. Then, he raises his other hand. It’s holding something wrapped in newspaper. That makes San nervous. Wooyoung knocks again to regain San’s attention.

“I got this for you.” He reaches over the top of the glass, but it’s high enough that he can only just bend his elbow even when standing on his tiptoes. San recalls he’s been wearing shoes with flat soles. Wooyoung waves his laden hand back and forth a few feet above San’s shoulder. “Take it already, this is hurting my arm.”

The bus putters at the curve a moment longer when San stands to take it. He’s careful not to touch Wooyoung’s fingers in the process, and he’s appalled at himself for just taking things from strangers when he doesn’t know what they are and didn’t his mother teach him better, but really he’s just making note of how this is the first time they’re properly standing next to each other and Jung Wooyoung is a few perfect centimeters shorter than him.

Wooyoung hums when he drops back down, smiling. “Good choice, San-ah. These are hotteok from the restaurant at my stop. I know the owner, and sometimes they leave the door in the alley open in case I want to stop in on my way to the bus.”

Still standing, bus still sputtering, San slowly unfolds the newspaper. Inside lay two fluffy, golden cakes. The paper sticks to one side where the cinnamon sugar filling has started to escape, packed too-full for the crisped dough to retain. 

“Since we can’t do dinner, I thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

San snaps his head up, jaw slack. “What?”

Chuckling, Wooyoung shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal. I’m charming, they think so too, I get a couple of piping hot cakes for us both.” Wooyoung takes a step back to retrieve his own newspaper container. “See? I got some too. I didn’t know if you were a sweet-things-for-breakfast kind of guy though. I’ve only ever seen you consume coffee and bananas, which, I’m into,” Wooyoung smirks, “but who doesn’t like something sweet after something phallic?” San gasps. “Kidding! I’m kidding! But seriously, you always take lunch indoors so I don’t know what else you eat but these are good so stop looking appalled and either eat them now or save them for later. If you keep staring at me we’re going to be off-schedule and it’s only the second stop of the day.” 

San can’t function. He’s trying, he is. But Wooyoung’s pretty, and pretty Wooyoung brought him food. 

“Really? You’re still speechless? Okay cutie, you better snap that mouth shut before I tell you all the other things I could put in it.” That gets his attention. “Good boy, just set those aside for now, let’s go. We’ve got a timely reputation to uphold.”

Only when he sits back down, the smell of hotteok warming the bus, does San realize that Wooyoung said his name. Familiar.

\----

They ate them together on that bench outside the CU. Wooyoung waited. He didn’t have to, San didn’t ask, but Wooyoung saved his until San’s break, even though they’re better when they’re fresh. San was grateful it was a bench and not a table because he didn’t think he could have survived watching Wooyoung eat. Whenever he drank coffee on the bus it was confident, reassured, and San only allowed himself sideways glances any time they hit a bump, just to see if the paper towels under his seat were necessary. They never were. But Wooyoung eating was slow, purposeful. It’s like he calculated where the filling would trickle out and he’d put his free thumb right there. He caught every drip on his fingers, his palm, raising them to his lips in between bites, to lick. San forcibly stared at the curb while it happened, but he still heard it. He heard the stroke of tongue between fingers, of the soft sucks on sugared palm. Every time they clicked, a little too wet, San’s jaw clenched, and by the end of it he thought he might’ve cracked a tooth. He manages until Wooyoung reaches over to sweep at a lost glob of filling on San’s remaining oil-blotted newspaper, swiping it up with two fingers. He extends his tongue, places his split digits against it, and sends them so deep San’s sure he’s going to hit the back of his throat. Then he slips them out, cleaned, slick, his tongue darting around to catch the crystals of brown sugar at the corners of his lips, and then those lips form a word, and it’s-

“San.”

“Coffee.” San jolts, sending his newspaper flying, crumbles and sugar populating the pavement when he springs up and storms straight into the CU, straight into the bathroom behind a locked door where he can cleanse his hands and the visions behind his eyes and the embarrassed realization that he had somehow pivoted and was watching every flick of his passenger’s pink, pink tongue.

He doesn’t need caffeine; he’s already dialed up to ten, fingertips buzzing with unseen forces he wishes he could curse out, but that was the only word on his tongue. It’s fine though. Coffee can be saved for later. It makes sense. It’s not incriminating.

When he gets back, his prosecutor is leaning on the door with crossed arms.

“San-”

“Thanks for the hotteok.”

Wooyoung frowns but San won’t meet his eyes. Silently, he steps away to unlock the bus. They board and return to the previously scheduled order.

\----  
Day 5

“Why do you ride the bus?”

Wooyoung taps off the end of his cigarette. “I like the routine.”

San turns on his blinker, switches lanes. “You ride this bus front to back, start to stop, seven times a day, every day.”

“I work nights.” 

“And this is how you like to spend your free time?” 

Breathe in, exhale. 

“It’s less lonely, this way.”

\----  
Day 8

“You should stop smoking.”

“You should stop being a distracted driver.”

\----  
Day 10

“Drinking that much caffeine and smoking as often as you do might raise your blood pressure levels and lead to increased risk of anxiety and paranoia- “

“You seem to have a lot of professions, Choi San.”

\----  
Day 13

Kim Hongjoong boards, scarcely a minute late this time. He’s still the only one who regularly greets San. Wooyoung’s already deep in conversation with someone else, and San’s curious.

“Wouldn’t it be faster to take the subway if you work at Sookmyung?” 

Hongjoong blinks, retrieving his pass as it pops back out of the reader. He blinks again, then catches up. 

“Oh, I guess you’ve heard us talking about it before. We’re not very quiet.” San blushes a little. He shrugs like he isn’t trying to listen, but Wooyoung’s attention to detail is rubbing off on him. Hongjoong doesn’t seem like he really minds. “Sure, it might be faster, but there’s less opportunity to sit down, and I use my time on the bus to finish preparing my lessons. It’s a part of my system now, and I need it to be fully prepared. I’m a teacher.” He glances at Wooyoung. “Before Wooyoung-ah started riding, the bus wouldn’t wait for me if I was a few minutes behind. Whenever that happened I did have to take the train and I ended up late to class anyway because I was so frazzled from all the crowds and the motion. And I never got to review my lesson plans. It was awful. I spent half my time thinking I was one train away from getting fired.”

San hums. Hongjoong offers a shrug. 

“I appreciate you waiting for me, gisa-nim.”

San’s breath catches. “Wooyoung’s the one who makes it happen.”

He doesn’t notice Wooyoung’s head turn in his direction, hidden from view by Hongjoong’s frame. Hongjoong nods, starting to back away.

“And you can call me San.”

At that, Hongjoong smiles. 

Wooyoung does too.

\----  
Day 15

“It’s broken.”

“That shit’s been broken for a year, honey.”

“What? That isn’t up to code.”

“Unless you’ve got the money to fix it yourself, just leave it be.”

San glares up at Wooyoung. He’s crouched under the bench seat while Wooyoung's standing, arms crossed, throwing him equally displeased looks. 

“You’re the ‘bus guardian’ or whatever, shouldn’t you care about the quality of this vehicle?”

“Fine. Make fun of me. But that’s why I choose to sit on this broken-ass seat by myself, _asshole_ ,” he spits back. 

San huffs, removing the standard bag of tools stocked on every bus, the ones that live under the driver’s seat next to that roll of paper towels. Just in case. 

He’s trying to fix the hinges that allow the bench seat to fold up or lay back down. It became an issue going through Itaewon, the other area where the expats like to hang out. These aren’t tourists like the ones in Myeongdong though. These are the ones who come to teach English or serve at the US military base or who married a Korean and decided to start an insert-ethnicity-here fusion restaurant. These are the ones who take their giant suitcases on the bus before zipping off to the airport where they’ll certainly go on extended holidays long enough to warrant bags of that size. 

They’re the kind of unusual passengers that interrupt routine. The kind that Wooyoung doesn’t like. 

“Why’d that guy have so many bags anyways, huh? He was just one guy. What, was he hoarding Samsung products to sell off in some other country?”

He _had_ had a lot of oversized bags. San hadn’t liked it and Wooyoung liked it even less, but he still got up and offered the whole area to the man, mostly so everyone in the front wouldn’t have to rearrange, or the bags wouldn’t slide all over the aisle and run into the woman with the kids. Or even worse, Wooyoung’s pretty, huffy, afternoon confidant, Kang Yeosang. Unlike Wooyoung, he was upright and proper, quiet and pastel. But he could glare just as well.

While Wooyoung was expertly lifting and securing the bench, San noticed the problem. The hinges were loose and a series of bungee cords held certain things together. It was secure, the way Wooyoung tied it. But San didn’t like it.

“What about when other people get on the bus and need this space, huh, Wooyoung-ah? What about families with strollers or people in wheelchairs. You just rig it like this every time?”

Wooyoung stays quiet. San thinks he’s hit a nerve. When he looks up to check, tensed for another sassy retort, he finds big eyes and parted lips.

San tenses. “What?”

“You said my name.”

A thrill rips it’s way down San’s spine.

“I’ve said it before.”

“Never _to_ me, though.”

San forces himself to look away, refocus his energy on the red and orange cords holding this bus and his sanity together. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal. But you know what is? This safety hazard.” San drops the bench, collecting himself and walking back up to the driver’s seat. 

Wooyoung scoffs. “You know what else is a safety hazard? You, Choi San, especially when you’re hungry. Thanks for wasting half our break on this dumb issue. Now get your perky little ass in that CU before I buy out the bananas and deepthroat them for the rest of the ride.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Wooyoung’s tongue pokes into the hollow of his cheek.

\----

Wooyoung only buys one banana, which he deepthroats two times. He never chokes.

San does, though.

They don’t talk about the bench again.

\----  
Day 18

“Tell me about Shownu.”

Since the suitcase incident, they’ve gotten along pretty well, and Wooyoung’s mood seems to be seeping into everyone else. The usuals start greeting him, offering nods or smiles or even verbal ‘hello’s’. He stopped making Wooyoung get off the bus during breaks, but he usually chooses to accompany San anyway. Wooyoung brings him into other conversations sometimes. He’ll be talking with Jongho in the morning, on the days when he isn’t already meditating or solving physics problems with his eyes closed and his ears occupied by heavy black headphones, and he’ll casually connect San by asking him a question or referencing something that’s happened since he took over their route. It’s nice. San likes to listen, and he’s always liked to people watch, but he likes getting to know them just a little bit more.

But today’s Saturday, which means that the weekend crowd is still new to San but familiar to Wooyoung, who he’s come to learn wasn’t lying when he said he’s ridden that route every day for years. It’s the late morning, time for brunch, and the gaggle of plaid-on-plaid bistro goers clots up the entire back half of the bus. Wooyoung doesn’t seem to mind though, instead focusing his attention on San. 

That’s become its own kind of routine, apparently.

Wooyoung looks surprised. “What do you want to know?”

San shrugs. “You were upset that he didn’t tell you about his surgery. Has he been around for a while?”

"He’s been driving this route for 10 years.” 

San whistles. That’s a long time.

“We've got a great relationship. We talk about dramas and video games and protein.”

“Protein?”

“He’s buff.”

“Oh.” That shouldn’t make San feel insecure. “So you’ve been with him for three years?”

Wooyoung offers a nostalgic half smile. Smoke floats up when he exhales, diligently sending it up to the open window. “Yeah. He’s been here since the beginning. When I first started riding, it didn’t matter which route. I would just get on whatever came first and go wherever it took me, beginning to end. Not everyone’s into that though - some of the drivers threatened to call the police and made a big mess in front of the other passengers. When whoever counts as upper management at the city transpo begrudgingly told them I wasn’t wasn’t a threat to society or experiencing homelessness, they had to let me ride if I wanted. But their accusations were even more stigmatizing. What was the comfort in riding then?” Wooyoung sighs, eyes roving the idle windshield wipers, the dash. “You might guess what happened next.”

San clicks on a blinker. “You met Shownu?”

“I met the community on bus 2469.”

San pauses, noting the distinction.

“Did Shownu-ssi know about what happened?”

“I think everyone who drove a route through Gangnam knew. Half the security staff too. You put up a big enough fight against what’s considered ‘proper etiquette’ and people have to see you.” Smiling to himself, Wooyoung relaxes back into his seat. He stretches to place his hands behind his head. “But you know what my favorite etiquette topic is?”

San bristles. It’s the change in his tone, the lax posture, the purr. “What?”

“Public indecency.”

Oh no.

“I asked Shownu one time if his ass ever got sore from sitting on that cracked leather bucket seat all day, and you know what he told me?" Wooyoung pauses, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "He said he gets someone to massage it for him every night.” Inhale, release. “Your ass ever get sore, San-ah?" 

It’s a trick question, he knows. Don’t answer. Ignore.

"You need someone to massage it for you?"

San’s starting to realize that with Wooyoung, not answering might be the wrong approach.

Wooyoung chuckles, grinning up at the ceiling. He shifts a bit, seems to let it go. “Do you drive anything else?”

“Of course,” San responds, quick to accept a topic he’s comfortable with. “As I said originally, I usually find work by subbing in as a driver for different forms of city transportation. I’ve driven cabs, regional busses. I even assisted a train conductor a few times.”

“Oh?” Wooyoung’s puffing out the air of his second cigarette. He’s moving through them quicker today. 

Must be all the people.

“Mm,” San nods. “I don’t like it as well though, since it’s underground. Half the fun of driving is taking in the view.”

Wooyoung hums emphatically. “Yes, it is.”

They’re quiet as Wooyoung takes another drag. San feels like he’s supposed to say something in return, or maybe Wooyoung’s quiet thoughts are just starting to make him feel anxious. San realizes he’s gotten so used to Wooyoung leading the conversation, guiding the vibes and the energy of the ride, that he doesn’t know what to do when Wooyoung gives him space. His fingers drum against the wheel.

“...Do…do you drive anything...Wooyoung-ah?”

He sees one corner of Wooyoung’s lips perk up through his rearview mirror. 

“I plough, sometimes.” He’s murmuring just loud enough for San to hear, to comprehend. 

San can’t help the way he tenses up again. Plough is an interesting word.

His dry throat manages. “Your family farms?”

“Mn,” Wooyoung negates, watching San watch him through the rearview. “Just me.”

San reaches for his water bottle. “You farm in the city?” 

Wooyoung purrs again, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. “It’s easier to plough in the city, don’t you think, San-ah?” 

San’s voice cracks. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mmm.” Wooyoung’s voice lilts, emphasizing. “Well, do you want to know what grows well here in Seoul?”

Spit clogs San’s throat. Spit and roils of tension, his muscles curling in on themselves. 

Wooyoung stands, sliding up against the seat, up to the front where the stairs meet platform. He stubs out his cigarette, dashes it into his empty metal container. Crossing to the other side, the driver’s side, he molds himself to the place where hinges secure that barrier of glass. He's close.

“I think you _do_ know, San-ah. I think you’re familiar with a lot of things here in Seoul. What with all your experience, all the people you’ve met, all your tall, broad, tiny waist, fuckable face good looks. I stare at your jaw all day, San, I watch the way it clenches when I get you riled up, the way your Adam’s apple bobs when something makes you hot and bothered and twitchy. Yeah, like right now. Aroused is a good look on you. If I asked whether you were a grower or a shower, would you tell me? I wonder. But somehow, I think I already know. And I know you appreciate good crops too, good fruit, with the way you watch me go whenever you kick me out - oh, hell, is that why you kicked me out? Just to watch my ass jiggle? I should have known.”

San’s panting. He’s hoovering air, eyes lightning focused on the traffic signals, the white lines. His finger smashes into the door control button a little too hard, like he hasn’t yet learned to tame the undiluted adrenaline raking its way through his veins.

“And you still want to tell me you don't know anything about agriculture in Seoul?”

The onboarding passengers don’t even blink.

“No?” Wooyoung angles forward, enough that he’s trying to catch the corner of San’s eye. As the crowd shuffles away, Wooyoung leans in to whisper. “Then maybe you would find it reassuring to know that as much as I’m happy to be _doing_ the ploughing, that my _preference_ , Sannie, is to be the one _getting_ ploughed.”

San chokes. He chokes on that spit in his throat and he chokes even harder when he realizes how embarrassing this is, how Wooyoung knows, _he knows_. 

He doesn’t have to look to hear the triumph in Wooyoung’s voice.

“Ah, I thought so. Well you know, San-ah, this _is_ the harvest season. And we should all be preparing for winter, don’t you think?”

Find water bottle. Remove cap. Drink. Swallow. Don’t choke again. Don’t.

“You ever gotten road head before?” 

San chokes.

“Shh, swallow first.”

“No,” he manages.

“You ever wanted to?” 

San might break a tooth after all. “Not while driving a bus loaded with innocent people.”

Wooyoung’s grinning ear to ear. “Who said anything about that?”

San wishes he could respond, he does. He wishes he could fervently deny such heinous claims, could tell Wooyoung off and assert his professionalism and his good status and the perfection he strives for every day, but he can’t. He can’t, because Wooyoung draws out his vowels and he purrs with a bedroom voice like a bus full of passengers is just ASMR for lonely people, and he does things with his tongue that confirm what San already knows - that Wooyoung’s good with his hands and his mouth and his imagination, that Wooyoung would arch for him and moan for him and lick cum off his hands like hotteok filling - San’s cum, his cum, _both_ , and later feed him noodles from a carton or sweet and sour soup and San, San would beg to do it again.

Wooyoung better stop talking before San drives this bus off the road.

When San doesn’t respond, Wooyoung leans back, tsks.

“I’ve always wondered what you think about up here.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean the world to me!
> 
> [@Wooingsan](https://twitter.com/wooingsan)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions often happen after dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for accompanying me on bus 2469! I hope you enjoy the last chapter, inspired by Halloween.
> 
> Note: Updated tags

\----  
Day 25

“She won’t like that.”

“She will. I’ve watched Mrs. Park eat a cough drop every single day.”

“It’s habitual, San. I would know. She doesn’t suck on fake cherry because she’s looking for candy. Maybe she started by thinking it was good for her health or something, who knows. But she isn’t going to appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

“They’re lollipops, Wooyoung. The eldery love lollipops.”

Over the past few weeks, San realized exactly how important their little community was. Wooyoung was their beautiful, wise man on the mountain who everyone came to for advice, or who they trusted to monitor their children or their designer goods or their health. People depended on him. He was willing to get in the middle of arguments when needed, but they rarely occurred because of the relationships he’d built and helped them foster between each other. San noticed teens who’d been glued to their phones at the bus stop then get on, blank them out, and put them away because they’d become too engaged in conversation to care about their follower count. When their stops came, they’d look almost sad to say goodbye. People traded recipes, traded jokes, complimented keychains and artwork and good moods. They’d scold each other when someone sneezed, not because they were afraid, but because they cared about that person’s health. He once watched Jongho hand a can of porridge to Wooyoung, almost wordless save for a grunt. Wooyoung took it with ease, as if he knew the purpose. San didn’t. He was there every day too and yet, he couldn’t figure it out. But later, when Yeosang boarded with a sniffle and a thick wool scarf, Wooyoung set the porridge on his lap, mussed his hair, and smiled. 

_“He’s sweet.”_ Then, _“Yes, he is.”_

It took San a few more days, a few more overheard conversations, to realize that Jongho had a raging crush on Yeosang. But Jongho only saw him Tuesdays and Thursdays at school. Wooyoung was happy to play cupid.

Wooyoung knew everything. But more than that, he saw everything. He saw what people needed and wanted, but never asked for anything himself.

San wanted to prove that he could be an asset, too.

Wooyoung leans back on the bench as San bungees a square tin to the yellow frame around the card reader. He glares at the bungee cords. Upon recognizing their obnoxious colors, Wooyoung had checked to confirm that San did, in fact, care enough to fix his seat. San caught the hint of a smile before he started off in disapproval. 

“She’s going to think you’re patronizing her.”

“She won’t! She’s nice. A little reserved, but I’ve got to win her over somehow.”

“Okay, fuck it up then, I'll watch.”

A few stops later, Mrs. Park does scowl at the lollipops. San deflates. Wooyoung tsks his tongue in disapproval. 

Everyone else, however, is thrilled.

\----  
Day 36

“So, I was thinking about the lollipops.”

“Not that again.”

“Yeah. Everybody else was into them. But you know who was especially delighted?”

Wooyoung groans. “It doesn’t matter because you’re not going to do it again- “

“The expats,” San nods triumphantly. Over time, San’s noticed that the riders who get on through Itaewon are a bit of a sore spot for Wooyoung. Not just when they break routine, but even the normal riders at consistent times. Maybe it’s the language barrier, making it so Wooyoung can’t really befriend them in the way he would like. Or maybe it’s the cultural differences, or the way they sometimes don’t know which seats are reserved for the elderly, or when they talk on the phone on speaker. He’s not sure, but he knows Wooyoung would integrate them more if he could. 

This bus is his family. Wooyoung still hasn’t told him where he works at night, but he knows this route and these people mean the world to him.

“And you know why they were so happy?”

“San-ah, you’re overthinking-”

“It’s because of Halloween.”

Wooyoung pauses. He’s been holding the styrofoam cup between his legs this whole time, hands busy separating the mass of hotteok he got for the lady with the kids. They were having a 2+1.

“Halloween?”

“Yeah,” San affirms. “You’re familiar with it?”

“Look, I know you’ve been around the block, but clearly you don’t understand that Korea doesn’t celebrate.”

San grins. “Exactly.”

“I’m not following.”

“That’s why they were so excited! It’s October, and we’re getting close to the end of the month. Maybe they thought I was giving them Halloween candy and that’s why they were extra smiley and bowed more than necessary.”

Wooyoung finishes with the cakes, placing them neatly back into the repurposed cardboard box he got from the restaurant. “Okay. So?”

San’s appalled. “Wooyoung! I know it bothers you that you can’t seem to connect with them. What if this is a way in?”

The coffee must be cold by the way Wooyoung frowns at it. “Maybe they just don’t like me.”

San rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not it. So, what if we try celebrating with them?”

The size of Wooyoung’s frown increases. “Excuse me?”

“Just think about it. I bet the regulars would love it too. It wouldn’t have to be big - we could just dress up, have candy, and play music or something. I could even hang lights off the handrails! I saw some glowing pumpkins on a string in one of the fusion restaurants earlier. I’ll point it out when we go by again. I can go in and ask where they got them and if they have any other recommendations for things we should do. What do you think?”

Wooyoung groaned. “No.”

San’s jaw hit the ground. “What? But I thought you would love a chance to bond with them!”

“Not necessary.”

“It would be nice.”

“They won’t trust you - I wouldn’t trust you. How do they know the candy won’t be poisoned or dusted with chloroform or something?”

"I’ll buy a sealed package, how would that happen?" 

"As soon as you pour them into a bowl they've lost their integrity.”

“Even individually packaged miniatures?”

“Yes. If it were me, I would assume you tampered and resealed them.” 

San thinks for a moment, Wooyoung sips his coffee, long legs crossed.

“I literally keep my hands on the wheel at all times. Logically, I wouldn’t be able to tamper every time we open a brand new bag.”

“You could be in cahoots with the store management and have your own special murder packages already made up." 

San's shoulders slump and he utters a long, long sigh. It takes a few minutes in which Wooyoung looks proud of successfully talking him out of it before San recovers. 

"Okay, _you_ pass it out then." 

Wooyoung scowls. "Excuse me? I think your tongue tripped. What did you say?" 

“You come buy the bags with me, then you hand out the candy.”

"No, no. I don't support this. People don't need candy and frivolity, they need reliable transportation and a safe routine." 

"You're speaking for yourself." 

Wooyoung scoffs. “I run this bus.”

San’s mouth sets in a straight line. 

\----  
Day 42, October 31st

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

San’s smiling ear to ear as they walk through the automatic doors, straight to the seasonal aisle. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

San takes a swig of his coffee. It’s hazelnut. It’s from Wooyoung’s metal thermos. 

Because Wooyoung made coffee and put it in his own mug and brought it for San. 

It’s perfect and San tries not to think about it.

He can’t help but smile when Wooyoung sips at his own, in a thermos with glittery Disney characters down the side. The only spare, apparently. He was surprised Wooyoung didn’t give it to him.

They’re in Lotte Mart, the bus locked securely in the short-term lot. They’ve both got backpacks. Unfortunately, San has to wear his uniform at all times, but he already purchased something special for later. 

He brought something for Wooyoung, too. It’s a secret.

“I won’t pass out the candy.”

“Yes, you will. The tin isn’t big enough to hold it all so I had to buy that special orange bowl you saw earlier, the one with the bats.” Wooyoung had seen it when San waved the container enthusiastically through the window. After considering a turn on his heel to walk back home and avoid the day altogether, Wooyoung sighed and trudged on anyway. He didn’t trust San to uphold the sanctity of bus 2469, especially after he mentioned strapping a plastic skeleton to his chest to freak out the other drivers. Nothing felt safe. “Besides, the goal of this is to get as many people to interact with you as possible, and this is foolproof.”

San watches Wooyoung tug at a sleeve of his oversized hoodie. He pulls it down to cover pretty fingers, shrugs it up again. A collarbone flashes in the process. This time, San let's himself look. 

San knows him well enough to understand that means he’s feeling out of his element. And Wooyoung is a man of routine. 

San grabs a couple of brightly colored, monster embellished bags of mixed candy off the shelves at random. He doesn’t know what’s typical fare in other countries, but judging by the import prices, he’s got the right stuff. 

“This crap is so bad for you. I mean just look at it, even the packaging is garish. And why is everything shaped like bats? And ghosts. Who wants to eat something shaped like a ghost?"

A few more bags pile onto Wooyoung’s arms before San fills his own. They should have grabbed a basket, but this is San’s 15 minute break and brevity leaves no time for comfort.

“Those peanut butter pumpkins literally look like pieces of shit.”

“Alright, so you gonna volunteer to make popcorn balls instead?”

“What the fuck are popcorn balls?”

San moves further along the aisle. “Remember when I went to that fusion restaurant to ask about the lights? Well, one of the owners is from the States and she talked about how this nice couple in their neighborhood used to pass out these homemade balls of fresh popcorn stuck together with corn syrup. Sweet and salty. They also told me that the same couple sold hot dogs and sodas in cans in case anyone got tired from all the trick-or-treating, but I didn’t think bringing a hot plate on the bus was a good idea and popcorn balls sounded messy, so here we are. Grab that bag that looks like a zombie, please.”

San studies Lotte’s option of bowls, considering buying another just in case, but the plastic is disappointingly thin and the purple stains in the shape of spiders seep through to the interior of the dish like blotted paint.

It's quiet for a minute, before he finds the scandalized look on Wooyoung’s face. He says, "You disgust me". 

\----

San asked the second shift driver if he could work overtime. It would be mutually beneficial - San could continue driving a few hours after dark, showing off the interior orange glow, the spooky music, while the later driver had the chance to eat dinner with his family for once. And as San picked up a new batch of expats dressed up like pirates and power rangers who ogled at the candy bowl, he thought it was all worth it. 

That, and the laughter held in the wrinkles at the corners of Wooyoung’s eyes. 

When San carefully brought out the sparkly, red devil-horn headband a few hours before, San knew he had gone out on a limb. Wooyoung was stubborn, and he was proud. More than that, San didn’t want him to feel obligated to interrupt the sanctity of his day. He thought, hoped, that if celebrating Halloween on the route would truly disrupt the solace Wooyoung finds in routine, that he would have told him. They’ve gotten close over the past few weeks, closer than San ever thought possible. They weren’t strangers anymore. Hundreds of hours in an enclosed space would do that to you, but more than that, they just clicked. 

At some point, San’s benign smiles had become real. 

For all of Wooyoung’s teasing he never pushed him too far, too outside his comfort zone. San tried to respect his, too. It was that mutual respect that brought them here. They’ve both asked questions, and they’ve both answered. If Wooyoung doesn’t like a question, he’ll divert, but that usually only happens when it’s about his small compulsions - the smoking, the coffee. San’s seen more small things too, like the way Wooyoung always wears the same sweatshirt like solace, the way it always smells fresh and clean and well taken care of. The way he’s prompt, but is able to sometimes stray from the comfortable cardboard box of habit where a cat feels the safest. And San, San is grateful that cat feels safe enough with him to be coaxed out of his box every once in a while. 

It’s worth it when Mrs. Park gets on for her return trip from the seniors club after a long day of cards or jazzercise or thousand piece puzzles, glances at the candy bowl, the decorations, Wooyoung then San, and laughs. She reaches in for a piece, a lollipop no less, and nods a ‘thank you’ San’s way. It’s the look of surprise on Wooyoung’s face, the smile, the warmth.

It’s worth it when Hongjoong boards too, shocked and breathless. He surveys the expats in costume, the decorations, the beats, before tossing his bag to the side and foregoing lesson planning to slip right into fervent chatter with anyone on board. When he compliments a stranger on their costume, in Japanese, they respond back too. Others edge into conversation, sharing bits of where they’re from, what they do. It starts quick and exciting, slowing into easy laughter when mistakes are made, smiles when Wooyoung passes out another round of candy like shots at a bar to ease their nerves and conversation. When they call for him again, to come sit, come join in, that cardboard box is long forgotten. 

There’s magic in the sound of his name. 

\----

Wooyoung open-mouth grins up at someone in a penguin onesie, tears rolling down his cheeks, watching as they try to pick up a chocolate between their two slick black wings. The piece rolls out again, the neoprene fabric too thick for their fingers to hold a grasp. Wooyoung wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, encouraged by the way the foreigner in costume smiles too. The language barrier has been reduced to smiles and shared joy.

The penguin moves on and Wooyoung looks up, out the window, to peek at what other characters might loom at the next stop. He smiles. 

Yeah, it was worth it.

It’s only five after dark.

\----

San adjusts his hat. He’d brought a few, just pulling cheap options off the rack at the tiny specialty store that expat couple directed him to. He didn’t know if Wooyoung would wear the devil horns, so he wanted to have backups. And then he thought about the other usual passengers, and how maybe, with Wooyoung’s influence, they would want to get involved too. They weren’t likely to be thinking about bringing a costume. So he plopped headbands, wigs, even a few sunglasses and some hats into his basket, more than happy to spend his own money if it went toward something truly memorable. 

He was glad he did, because when Wooyoung saw the horns, he made San compromise by letting him hand out the rest of the options to everyone else.

It all made sense when Jongho got on for his evening trip and stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing Yeosang still aboard, now crowned with the wire-hung halo from the angel/devil set. They were sat side by side, Wooyoung pulling Yeosang practically into his lap as the focal point, setting the candy bowl between his legs instead. Jongho was frozen until Wooyoung called him over, one hand stroking the fuzzy white fluff of Yeosang’s halo, the other settled on his hip. 

“Come on Jongho-yah. Don’t you know it’s Halloween? Our little angel has been waiting to give you a treat.”

Yeosang flushes red, trying to rotate over his shoulder to tell Wooyoung to hush. Jongho darkens too, almost forgetting his T-pass in the haze of his crush sat atop Wooyoung’s lap. Jongho makes it all the way to stand almost between Yeosang’s legs before Wooyoung abruptly pushes Yeosang up and straight into Jongho’s chest, the candy bowl then shoved into Jongho’s arm. 

“Actually, why don’t you two go pass out another round in the back. Apparently our party bus is so popular people just aren’t leaving tonight. We might even hit capacity. Go give this out, I’ll prepare the other bowl.” With that, he presses his palms into their flanks and herds them along, calling out encouragements as they go. 

A few hours later, Wooyoung’s snickering alerts San to the fact that deep in the last row, crowd almost dispersed, there’s a halo pressed against the cold windowsill, its wearer getting the life sucked out of him by a pair of fervent lips at his neck.

\----

They’ve just deposited the last riders. San turns onto the final stretch, no one but him and Wooyoung to bask in the underglow of terminal festivities and strewn candy wrappers. 

Wooyoung had told him to drive straight through to the depot tonight. He wanted to help San clean up since it was too late for the cleaning crew and they’d made an abnormal mess anyways.

They’re drowsy, drained from the festivities, bodies flushed with something soft. 

“San-ah?” 

The silence stutters, swallows hard, accepts.

“Hmm?”

Wooyoung’s voice thrums when he asks, “Did you write down my number?”

“No.”

The silence stumbles again.

“You didn’t?”

“No. But I memorized it.”

Wooyoung sighs. It’s small, but it’s there, like a renewal of hope. Like relief. 

“San.”

“Hmm?”

“When Shownu comes back and they send you away, will you call me?”

San realizes that Wooyoung is nervous, because San has never told Wooyoung just how much he wants him, too.

“Why do I have to wait that long?”

Wooyoung makes a sound. It’s expressive, vulnerable.

“Wooyoung-ah?”

“Mm?”

“Are you going to be late for work?”

Wooyoung pauses, looking into San’s profile, searching. Then he leans in, cheeks pressed against his palms as he decides to speak, shy. 

“Actually, I don’t work.”

San wondered. He hums to let Wooyoung know he doesn’t disapprove. “Are you able to live well?”

Wooyoung smiles a little, grateful for the phrasing. The lack of judgement. “I am. I don’t have a job, but I write.” 

“What do you write?” 

“About people,” he hushes. “Things I observe. Patterns, behaviors.” He spreads out again, leaning his head back against the partition. He closes his eyes. “I write about things I understand, things I don’t. I write about what triggers my compulsions, what distracts me from them. Some of it gets published, some of it’s just for me.” 

San pulls into the depot. Wooyoung doesn’t need to look to know that San’s still listening. 

“I write at night. That’s when inspiration hits, when you can’t sleep. I started riding the bus because it calmed me down, the motion, and people watching inspired me. But then I got attached and it became routine, and it just morphed into another facet of my disorder. A good part, but a part nonetheless.” Wooyoung shifts. “Do you know what else I write about, San-ah?” 

It’s playful, commanding, rising out of trepidation.

“You.” 

San thought it was coming, he did. But it lit fire in his chest all the same. It’s hard to form words but he wants to know. “What do you write about me?”

There’s a tilt on Wooyoung’s lips. “I’ve written pages and pages about you. About your initial hesitance, about your dumb ideas. About the small ways you show you care, like fixing bench seats and not pushing me away. About how you try, and how you notice people, too. How you want to help me.” His voice slows, drops low, simmers. “About the first time I bought you hotteok and how good it felt to know you ate something I gave you, how good your lips looked covered in sugar, how much I wanted to taste them then.” 

He fades out, waits until San looks up. 

“How I still do.”

San slides the bus into its marked spot, late and wanted between rows of others asleep in the night. 

“I wrote about how...how you’ve never made fun of my quirks.”

San whispers, “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Wooyoung looks away. “Thank you.”

San flips off the cabin lights, the cameras, the engine hum. He fiddles until there’s nothing left to fiddle with. Until it’s just him, and the sound of Wooyoung’s breath, waiting.

“But, San-ah?” San hums in cognition. “Why didn’t you reciprocate until now?”

Standing, San says, “I thought it was a trap.”

“It was.”

He can see Wooyoung’s smile in the dim glow of the string lights, the only sign that this hadn’t morphed into a dream. 

“Did I pass?”

“Come here and find out.”

Wooyoung slides a hand between his thighs, up the bridge where pant seams connect, up his sweatshirt, his collarbones, until he tilts his neck and parts his lips and - how could San say no? Wooyoung’s in charge, after all. 

San steps out of the sanctity of his glass castle.

Even in the dim he can see the pink on Wooyoung’s cheeks that has to mirror his own, with the way San’s breath picks up and his heart shivers and his fingers shake at the ends. 

Wooyoung stands and approaches, closing the space. The tips of his toes meet San’s, their noses mingle, but neither looks up, still enamored by the lack of distance, the permission. Wooyoung lifts a hand to San’s arm, just under the elbow, where the sleeves are rolled up after a long day at work. He slips a finger underneath the rise, between the layers.

His fingers shake too. 

“San-ah.”

Emboldened, San loops his own fingers around Wooyoung’s hoodie strings. He twirls the ties back, forth. 

“San-ah. What do you want?”

Finally, too fast yet far too overdue, he looks straight into Wooyoung’s eyes. 

“I want to be part of your routine.”

There’s a catch in Wooyoung’s throat. 

Then he’s pushing San down, pressing him into the bench, to straddle.

He uses the top of the seat to slide himself into San’s lap, until his knees have to split against the back of the bench so he can press right up against San, so that when he lowers himself his ass sits perfectly on the V of San’s thighs, chest to chest, dick to dick. San can tell. Wooyoung inhales, so quiet, so quick, but with his lips on San’s ear, still panting into his temple, his jaw, San hears it.

They’re shrouded in darkness, only lit by the warm glow and gentle beat of soft jack-o-lanterns on strings. The light fades in, slips away, each pulse casting contours, contouring the divots and the veins and the tender, tender sinew of Wooyoung’s long neck as he presents it for him, throws his head back for him, moans out and gasps for air and comes undone for him. 

Pulse in, fade out, and Wooyoung rocks forward, pressing down and in and together until his forehead is resting on San’s, until he’s eyes closed, noses brushing, arms tensing to hold San near, to feel close, to breathe him in. 

Pulse in, fade out, and San catches the gloss in Wooyoung’s eyes when he lifts his own jaw up in offering, lips close, tongue coming out to make them slick, to make sure Wooyoung understands. Slow, important. Wooyoung rolls himself down, marks patterns against the slope of San’s nose with his own, lower lip heavy and open and moist against San’s cupid’s bow. “I want to taste your lips, too.” 

He feels it when Wooyoung tenses in anticipation, tenses like he didn’t believe he would get this far, like San wouldn’t want him back. His exhale flutters. San welcomes it in. And for a moment, they just breathe. 

Pulse in, fade out. Gasp, stutter, until San’s grip on Wooyoung’s hips tighten because he wants him, he wants him, and he opens his mouth farther to brush against Wooyoung’s exhale and Wooyoung understands, he does, because he drops his lower lip into the space between San’s, and San - San has never been prouder to be offered a kiss than in this moment.

San sucks in that lip, and he adores. He pulls it in, bites, rolls it against his tongue, tugs until it snaps back and Wooyoung moans, he moans, and San’s at it again. He kisses it, small pecks, little sucks, gentle then harsh on the corners and the slope and the swell, until Wooyoung has a hand in his hair and he pulls. Then Wooyoung’s in charge, like he’s always been, still gentle, still slow, but full of power and longing and repression and hope, kisses wet and sticky and still a taste sweet. 

He knows Wooyoung is granting more than just a kiss. For all his talk and his attitude and staking his claim, Wooyoung is welcoming him into more than his mouth. He’s offering him acceptance on this bus, this route, this makeshift, found family. Wooyoung’s offering him a place in his life, with permanence.

San can’t help it when he fists at Wooyoung’s sweatshirt, wanting it off, wanting to see him, so he asks. “Can I take this off?” 

And Wooyoung - Wooyoung says, “No.”

San freezes. Even as Wooyoung nuzzles into him to continue his kisses, he’s still. He should have known. 

Wooyoung’s worn this layer, this sweatshirt, every day he’s known him. It, like many things, is an integral part of his routine. 

And if San wants to be a part of it too, he will be happy to respect.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Wooyoung murmurs, “it’s fine, San. No need to apologize. You can lift it up - you can touch my skin. Just don’t take it all the way off.” He presses a kiss into San’s hair. San shudders, fingers clenching into the fabric. “Thank you for waiting, for listening. I knew you would.” Gently, he lifts San’s face with his hands. “But please, don’t stop.”

Wooyoung kisses him fiercely on the mouth.

Wooyoung trusts. San can too.

His arms climb to grip as much of Wooyoung as possible, holding him tight, one looping around his waist and the other drifting up to splay fingers across the center of his back, to feel. But his shirt comes with it and San’s hands touch firm skin, hot with desire, and together they whine. One high, one low. Their kisses try to get faster but they can’t, synchronized with the strobe of the lights, keeping them grounded and sure, focused on taste and touch and sound. San’s fingers pick up to draw saccharine lines down Wooyoung’s spine. He arches into the touch, disconnecting their lips, hands unlooping to land on San’s shoulders to deepen the curve, the grind of hips and asses on cocks. Wooyoung knows what he wants. He lifts one hand to pull at his hem where it’s caught in between them, wanting it up, wanting his chest on display. San’s happy to help. He catches the shirt and rucks it up, pulling the front until Wooyoung can take it between his teeth, to hold it up. They’re seamless, connected, one knowing the other’s intentions like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Like they’ve watched each other, thought about each other at night and in secret, and like they’re on the same page. Wooyoung’s arching deeper into him and San sighs at his nipples, perfectly proportioned to the slim, smooth lines of Wooyoung’s body, his ribcage, his waist. San wastes no time licking them into his mouth too. They’re already peaked, heated and malleable as he takes one between his teeth, as he pulls off and swipes it with broad strokes of his tongue, switching one to the other until Wooyoung’s hem turns a deeper shade, soaked with saliva and lust.

San slides his hands down the long line of Wooyoung’s tummy, the start of the dip in his hips under the band of his jeans, a hint too big. The material leaves a gap between pants and skin, just enough for San to dip his thumb into as he runs a hand around the curve of his waist. Then he stops, considers.

They’ve got more time.

“Wooyoung-ah?”

“Yes, Sannie?”

He presses another kiss to Wooyoung’s lips, holds him close. 

“Thank you.”

Wooyoung smiles.

"Gisa-nim?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's get off."

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)
> 
> Your comments mean the world to me! [@Wooingsan](https://twitter.com/wooingsan)


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